


this most assuredly counts

by figure8



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Tenderness, idolverse, set during OTY, this is a staple figure8 tag now i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: “I hope you’re not falling sick,” Minghao continues. This catches Junhui’s attention fully, because he turns to him, grinning.“Why, afraid you’ll catch it too?”
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 29
Kudos: 261





	this most assuredly counts

**Author's Note:**

> extrapolated from a short prompt on curiouscat (“neon lights at 1:30 AM”). title and epigraph from look after you by the fray

_ There now, steady love, so few come and don’t go _

_ Will you, won’t you be the one I’ll always know? _

_ When I’m losing my control, the city spins around _

_ You’re the only one who knows, you slow it down _

  
  
  


Under the neon lights in this Walgreens Junhui looks tired and fragile. Outside the snow has stopped, but the streets of Chicago are still blanketed in white. It is past one in the morning, Minghao knows— his phone indicated 01:02 when he checked it before slipping outside of his hotel room to meet Junhui in the corridor. Something about insomnia and midnight cravings. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, tempted to smooth the bruise-like imprint of exhaustion under Junhui's eyes with two gentle fingers, barely containing that impulse. 

“Mmh-mmh,” Junhui nods, distracted. He’s trying to pick a drink from the fridge, but none of his favorites exist in America. They’ve faced this conundrum in Jersey, too. 

“I hope you’re not falling sick,” Minghao continues. This catches Junhui’s attention fully, because he turns to him, grinning. 

“Why, afraid you’ll catch it too?”

Minghao thinks of the slow, tender kiss they shared in one of the changing rooms before soundcheck earlier in the afternoon. 

“No.” He shakes his head, serious even though Junhui clearly just wanted to tease. “I don’t like it when you're unwell.”

“Yah,” Junhui reddens, looking away again. “Xiao ba, you’re embarrassing. Here,” he shoves a can of coke in Minghao’s hands, “Just buy me this.”

“What do I look like to you, made of money?” Minghao huffs, but he’s already fishing for the crumpled dollar bills he knows he stuffed into the right pocket of his joggers before leaving the hotel. 

  
  


*

  
  


Minghao, of course, gets sick  _ before  _ Junhui does. In Dallas two days later he can barely see from the pounding headache behind his eyelids, but he swallows the two Tylenol pills Seokmin slips him before they go on stage and grits his teeth through it. 

They pack up inside two vans to drive the three hours down to Houston, the distance not worth a plane ride, and Minghao is absurdly grateful. By that point his nose has simply stopped functioning as a breathing conduit. He puts his head on Mingyu’s shoulder and leeches on his warmth, reveling in the heat emanating from his body where they’re touching. 

By the time they get to their hotel he’s so dizzy Mingyu has to hold him by the arm. In the lobby Junhui takes one look at him and makes a beeline for the staff member handing out their key cards, grabs two and motions to both Mingyu and Wonwoo. Minghao watches them miserably from the armchair he crumbled in. 

“You’re rooming together,” Junhui tells them. It is not phrased like a question. Wonwoo shrugs, furtively touches Junhui’s forearm in silent assent. Mingyu throws a worried glance to Minghao. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. Reflexively, Minghao tugs him closer by the hem of his hoodie. Mingyu comes easy. Minghao drops his head against his stomach, mumbles into the fabric. 

“I feel like death.”

Mingyu emits a short, fond laugh. “I think you’ll survive,” he says, faux-serious. He brings up a hand to pet Minghao’s hair. “We’re leaving you in good hands.” 

Junhui ushers him into the bathroom the second they enter their room. 

“I’ll unpack.” He waves Minghao away when Minghao tries to open his own suitcase. “Hot shower. Steam.” 

“I know how to take care of myself,” Minghao laughs weakly. 

Junhui gives him a long, surprisingly sober look. “I know you do.” 

When he comes out of the shower, congestion temporarily kept at bay, he finds pajama pants and a woolen sweater neatly folded on the bed that’s on the side of the door. His heart tightens at that. He remembers Junhui animatedly explaining why he preferred not sleeping next to the window, one of the first times they ever shared a room.  _ Cold air seeps through the glass.  _

“I packed Gan Mao Ling,” Junhui tells him once Minghao is bundled up under the covers. He sits on the edge of Minghao’s mattress, presses his palm to Minghao’s forehead. “Do you think you have a fever?”

“Maybe,” Minghao says. “You don’t have a thermometer in there?” he teases. 

Junhui looks pained. “I did. I lent it to  _ someone  _ at some point and now I don’t know where it is.” He bites the inside of his cheek, pensive. “I wish we had ginseng.”

“There might be ginger tea,” Minghao points out, hopeful, gesturing to the coffee machine on the one piece of furniture in the room. 

Junhui stares dubiously. “In this country?” 

He still boils water and steeps two instant tea bags in the mug, frowning at the beverage in disgust before handing it to Minghao. 

“Supposedly cinnamon,” he says. “And I found a small packet of honey.” 

The tea is hot and sweet on Minghao’s tongue, hot as it flows down his esophagus too. Like a glow at the center of his chest. Junhui leans down and kisses him under his left eye, on the cheekbone. Their noses bump together when he lifts his head back up. Yearning opens its mouth inside Minghao’s belly, and it howls. His hands are under the comforter but the skin of his palms itches. 

He falls asleep with his neck propped up on three pillows, body slightly angled to the right. Under the covers he can see the light from Junhui’s phone, gleaming; the shape of him hill and valley well visited. Exhaustion settles in his marrow and he likes it take, lets it nail him down, mind flickering. 

In the morning Junhui is  _ upset.  _

“No,” he tells their manager at the door, barrier between this room and the rest of the world. Minghao is lying flat on the bed, belly down. If he plays dead maybe his body will follow and stop  _ hurting.  _ He knows he’s being dramatic, but it’s hard to think straight when breathing takes on the airs of an Olympic event. He tries focusing on Junhui, his blurred silhouette in the entryway as he comes back closer. 

“I told them you can’t come down yet,” Junhui says, brushing Minghao’s hair off his forehead. “They’re trying to get a doctor on the phone.” 

“How long until soundcheck?” Minghao asks. 

“We’re supposed to be in the car in an hour and a half.” 

Minghao buries his face in the bedsheets, makes an agonized sound. Junhui huffs out a laugh. 

“I know. Does your head feel better? I have painkillers.” 

“I want real tea,” Minghao whines. He hates being sick, hates being so dependant on others most of all. It’s different with Junhui, like it’s different with Mingyu, because they both have seen him at his lowest in different ways, but the core feeling remains. Minghao likes his independence maybe above all else. 

“There’s an Asian market twenty minutes away. If I can figure out how taxis work here I might be able to sneak out tonight,” Junhui promises. 

“No, you should have fun. I know the others said they wanted to go out for food after the show.” 

“Haohao,” Junhui says. He sounds chastising. The nickname, too, only ever comes out when Junhui thinks Minghao is being particularly stubborn. Childish. “I think I can miss out on  _ Texan cuisine.  _ Wonwoo will bring me something anyway, if I ask.” 

“Okay.” Minghao rolls over until his cheek is resting against Junhui’s thigh. He knows when to accept defeat. Junhui cards fingers through his hair again. 

“I have to go,” he says regretfully. His smile is as apologetic as it is tender. “I could only negotiate for you.” 

Minghao didn’t expect him to stay, but when he closes the door behind him and leaves Minghao to his sniffly nose and sore muscles, loneliness and fatigue grip Minghao by the throat anyway. 

  
  


*

  
  


“My turn,” Minghao says in San Jose, slipping under the comforter and plastering his body to Junhui’s, chest to back. 

“I’m disgusting,” Junhui protests weakly. But he curls up against Minghao, small in a way he rarely is. 

“You’ve already given me whatever microbe there is to give,” Minghao chuckles, kissing his nape where sweat is gathering already. “And you smell much better than after dance practice, so I think I’ll survive.” 

“I wanted to go on stage,” Junhui mumbles miserably. “I don’t like this, I don’t like—”

“I know, baby,” Minghao sighs. He settles his hand over Junhui’s heart, and Junhui immediately wraps his fingers around his wrist. “But sometimes you just can’t push through. You know that.” 

  
  


*

In Seattle, Junhui’s face is so grey no amount of foundation can salvage the situation. The makeup noona pats blush onto his cheeks, three layers of concealer for his eye bags. 

“You look like you’re about to topple over,” Minghao says. 

Junhui sticks out his tongue, which mostly means he wants to give Minghao the finger but won’t do it in front of so many people. So much of how they communicate with each other is a double entendre. Minghao grabs him by the arm, squeezes. He hopes Junhui knows this means  _ I want to kiss you.  _ By the way Junhui stops to stare at him wordless for a handful of second, eyes distinctly deep, he thinks his message was received. 

“Junnie wasn’t feeling so well yesterday,” Wonwoo says into the mic, waits for the interpreter to repeat it in English. 

“But I’m so happy to be able to perform for you tonight,” Junhui chimes in, bright. 

Confetti falls from the sky, paper raining,  _ Aju Nice  _ deafening on its fourth play on loop. Minghao grins, adrenaline and happiness and pride swirling inside his ribcage. Seokmin doused him in water a minute ago and his shirt is soaked, sticking to his back, but he is immune to the cold like this, body burning. 

Junhui runs along the bridge to the B stage, jumps. There are tear tracks on his face, although that might also just be sweat. When he stumbles into Minghao’s arms his glasses are askew, so Minghao leans in to fix them. 

_ Alright?  _ Minghao asks in silence, the music too loud for spoken words. 

Junhui intertwines their fingers, tugs.  _ Alright.  _

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for the love, always. comments and kudos keep the author brain well fed ❤️  
> you can find me on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/junmotions), if you’re so inclined!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Will You/Won't You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125764) by [Auber_Gine_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auber_Gine_Dreams/pseuds/Auber_Gine_Dreams)




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